


Psychosomatics

by AnxiousNightOwl, theneighbourhoodfanboy



Series: The 1954-55 Higgsbury Case. [1]
Category: Don't Starve (Video Game)
Genre: Anal Sex, Blood, Cannibalism, Character Death, Crossdressing, Death, Dismemberment, Eye Trauma, F/M, Gore, M/M, Minor Original Character(s), Oral Sex, Original Character Death(s), Original Character(s), Rough Sex, eek lots of gore n stuff, i guess thats what they are?, ill add more as i go - Freeform, wes does the big crossdress, willow and wilson are siblings lol
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-10
Updated: 2019-02-17
Packaged: 2019-10-25 21:02:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,237
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17732609
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnxiousNightOwl/pseuds/AnxiousNightOwl, https://archiveofourown.org/users/theneighbourhoodfanboy/pseuds/theneighbourhoodfanboy
Summary: 1954-55. New York City. 9-10 weeks of SAP injections. An eccentric doctor discovering something even he can't fathom.(you can tell i can't write summaries)





	1. Preface 1: Nightmare Poison

**Author's Note:**

> i'd suggest reading this beforehand, buuuut you don't have to.
> 
> yikes a new AU! so this isn't really a chapter, but more of a "welcome to the world" sorta thing. there IS a few characters/people ive invented specifically for this AU. this "preface" is all about the effects of a few... things. so far, over about 3 weeks, ive planned out almost this entire AU/story,,,,,including the ending. so expect more updates! sorry this is so short and sort of all over the place, but i SWEAR it's important. ((NOTE: EACH CHAPTER IS TITLED WITH THE DATE AND YEAR IT IS SET IN.)) anywho, hope you guys enjoy my (hopefully) suspenseful fic! this will be about 30-35 chapters at the very least. hopefully i will be able to finish this,,,,,,,,, hhhhh (ALSO I DON'T THINK I LIKE THE NAME FOR THIS FIC I MAY CHANGE IT)

January 5th, 1953.

03:41 am

 

**Nightmare Poison (street name: SAP)**

 

Symptoms of Nightmare Poisoning:

  * Tiredness (First sign)
  * Excruciating stomach pain
  * Insomnia
  * Tremors
  * Wheezing/Shortness of breath
  * Coughing
  * Throwing up black bile
  * Fingertips + hands turning black



 

**_The symptoms above occur over the course of 9-10 weeks of injecting this drug via needle. Two out of the three subjects didn’t show all symptoms listed. One suffered Hair loss and Diarrhea._ **

 

**_In some cases, (such as the two patients listed) death comes after 9 weeks. If the subject is smart and strong-willed enough, they survive the duration of the 10th week._ **

 

Prognosis:

_ Survival rate for a normal male is about 2%. If IQ is above 140, they have a 70% chance.  _

 

If one does survive past the initial 9 weeks:

 

  * ****Brain functionality increased by 20%****


  * **Memory (short and long term) increased by 34%**


  * **Thought speed increased by 50%**


  * **Faster metabolism by 22%**



 

 

Recipe:

 

  * ****Codex Umbra****



 

  * Nightmare Fuel (spiked with C10H15N and C10H14N2)



 

_ The  _ **_Codex Umbra_ ** _ is a powerful and dangerous spellbook that is in a certain  _ **_Sir Maxwell Carter’_ ** _ s inventory.  _

 

**_Sir Maxwell Carter_ ** _ invented the Nightmare Poison purely by accident. He had added strawberry scent to make it his personal blend.  _

 

**_Doctor Wilson Higgsbury is the only test subject to have survived past 10 weeks._ **


	2. January 16th, 2019.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ((NOTE: I CHANGED THE NAME OF THE STORY TO PSYCHOSOMATICS)) yay, so we're off now! chapter 1 is up. hope you like it???? it's a bit all over the place, but we're getting there. i or anxious will be uploading (hopefully) every week or so beyond this point. stay tuned! this chapter is being posted right as i finished it, so if there are mistakes, pls tell me. thanks! and happy reading :)

Jane Kingston holds the heavy book close to her chest, warm breath turning to steam in the frigid January air. She can hear  _ Them _ whispering words of encouragement to her, but she ignores it, knocking on the hardwood door. 

 

_ It’s late. _ She thinks.  _ These old geezers probably won’t be awake. _

 

“Mrs. Champlain?” She calls, giving the door another hard pound. 

 

No answer. 

 

“Please, Mrs. Champlain. I was sent here by the media to do a story on your father-” Jane’s words were cut off as the door swung open. She barely moved quick enough to avoid getting hit. An old woman with grey-streaked blonde hair stood behind it. 

 

“Father?” The woman responds, peeking through the small cracks. “You want to know about my father?”

 

Jane extends a hand towards, who supposedly was Mrs. Champlain, the book still grasped in her other arm. The woman squints, perhaps still in questioning. 

 

“I’m Jane Kingston.” She waves her hand a little, hoping Mrs. Champlain would take it. “I’m a reporter from The New York Times. My boss sent me here to-”

 

“How do you know where I live?” Mrs. Champlain demanded. “How do you know about my father?” The door started to close a little, leaving less and less room for Jane to see inside. 

 

Jane began to panic, trying to piece together how she got here. She does the only thing she can think of.

 

“Please, Mrs. Champlain!” She shouts, wedging her boot into the crack of the door. “I need to speak with you about your father! I know he didn’t get a fair trial, and I-- _ we _ want to avenge him! Not enough people know how much this man suffered! So please, I would like to ask a few questions about-”

 

Mrs. Champlain kicks Jane’s boot, freeing it. She slams the door shut, the jingling of locks setting into place, breaking Jane’s heart. 

 

“Victor!” Jane hears Mrs. Champlain yell, followed by heavy footsteps. 

 

She barely hears what’s being said, but one particular sentence stands out. 

 

_ She’s just a curious kid, let her do her report.  _

 

Jane’s heart lifts back up from it’s dark hole, as she hears the locks clicking open. 

 

A man and the woman stand behind the door this time, his grey hair matching Mrs. Champlain’s. They both stare at her. 

 

“One hour.” Mrs. Champlain cautioned. Her gaze still not warming up to Jane whatsoever.

 

Jane grins and is let inside the little townhouse. Her eyes adjust to the dimly lit living room, and she takes a seat on the old, brown couch. Mrs. Champlain, and what she assumed was Mr. Champlain, stood opposite of her. 

 

Mrs. Champlain had a hard expression locked onto her face. She still didn’t think Jane was serious. 

 

“So,” Mr. Champlain started, clapping his hands together. “What could you possibly want with some old folks like us?”

 

“She wants to know about my father, Victor.” Mrs. Champlain said, sitting down on the armchair to her left. “I don’t see what’s so important about it, really. He died almost sixty-six years ago.”

 

Jane pulled out her notepad, skillfully sliding the book inside the pocket.  _ They _ kept whispering to her, saying things like “ _ Halfway there, Jane. Dad and Grandpa would be so proud of you. You can do this. You can take back what’s rightfully ours. _ ”

 

Mrs. Champlain was glaring at Jane, waving her hand in front of her face. “Hey. Girl. Are you even listening?”

 

Jane shook her head, the voices going away temporarily. Holding onto her neck, she tried to make the spinning stop. “Yes, Mrs. Champla-”

 

“Shove it, kid.” She cut in, Jane immediately snapping her mouth closed. “Since you’re going to be doing a story on me in relations to my father, I’d suggest you cut the shit, and jump straight to the point.” Mrs. Champlain’s expression didn’t falter at the slightest.

 

Jane gave a nervous chuckle, glancing up at Victor. He offered a warm smile, and rest his hand on his wife’s shoulder. 

 

“Don’t mind her,” He jokes, patting Mrs. Champlain’s back. “She’s become quite bitter after living seventy-four years and giving birth to four children.”

 

“Shut it, Victor.” Mrs. Champlain shoots him a dirty look, shooing him to the other room. 

Jane feels a load of anxiety rush through her, not knowing what to say. She opened her notebook, flipping through pages and pages of random--and seemingly unneeded questions to ask this woman. 

 

She cleared her throat, now extremely nervous. It was hard enough to get inside their house to speak in the first place. 

 

Mrs. Champlain gave Jane a questioning look of  _ “So? What the fuck do you want? _ ”.

 

Jane’s posture remained rigid, clearing her throat again. 

 

“What was your mother’s name?” Her voice was quiet and lacking confidence. She unclasped the pen from the notepad, clicking it open.

 

Mrs. Champlain’s brows furrowed. “That’s it? That’s all you came here for?” She crossed her arms, leaning back on the cushioned chair. Her body language said some cruel words to the reporter.

 

Jane’s hands were shaking, and she nodded. “I wanted to know the history,” She responds. “Try to get an idea of what really went down inside your father’s head. And because of that, I do need some form of a backstory.”

 

The old woman scoffed. She gave the same tight-lipped frown her father had in his execution photos. “I’ll have you know, my mother was a beautiful woman. She didn’t just have some plain old French name,” Mrs. Champlain’s posture relaxed a little, as did Jane’s. “Her name was Madeliné. Madeliné Francine Bélanger. The love of my father’s life.”

 

Jane’s eyes widened, chin in her hands. “It seems like you have a lot of respect for your mother.” She gave a small grin, hoping Mrs. Champlain would return it. To no avail. 

 

“Of course I do! What kind of animal do you think I am? Who doesn’t love their mother?” She snapped, throwing her arms into the air like a madman. Half a second goes by, leaving Mrs. Champlain to go back to her normal scowl. 

 

“R-right. Madeliné, you said?” Jane quipped, scribbling some words down onto her paper. “But the court files I looked through said that-”

 

“Madeliné wasn’t her actual name? I know, Kingston. I figured that shit out two days after her autopsy.” The old woman refrained crossing her arms. “You asked for my  _ mother’s _ name. Madeliné  _ is  _ my mother.” 

 

Now it was Jane’s turn to furrow her brows. “But Mrs. Champlain, Madeliné wasn’t his actual-”

 

“I know!” She yelled, her snarl as wide as ever. “I know what his real name was! I know my mother wasn’t a female, but I sure as hell know that I still love him as one!” Mrs. Champlain stood up, her eyes wild with hatred.

 

Mr. Champlain came rushing over in an instant, concern filling in his blue eyes. “What’s happening? Why are you yelling?” Grasping at his wife’s shoulders, Mr. Champlain got her to sit back down. Jane was flinching, her body going into defense mode. 

 

Mrs. Champlain was calming down quickly after her husband came to the rescue. She began reassuring him that she was fine. Mr. Champlain didn’t buy it in the slightest. Nonetheless, he did retreat back into the other room when his wife asked him to. 

 

Jane’s body suddenly felt quite cold. She ignored it, asking further. “Where was your mother from? How old was she?” The last question came off much softer and tentative than the other.

 

The old woman smirks, but it fades rapidly. “She was a Francophone. The prime age of twenty-nine when she died. Born and raised in Cannes,” Her hands folded together on her lap, Jane noticing something was in them. “Mother had always promised us that we would vacation in her hometown...as soon as father made a breakthrough.”

 

Jane looked up from her notepad, seeing the glint of remorse in Mrs. Champlain’s eyes. 

 

“He never did, though. Father wasted years of his life trying to make sense of this world. He would always tell mother that there had to be another way. He would ramble on and on about his crazy ideas and inventions that never got to see the light of day.”

 

Mrs. Champlain sighed, slumping a little in her chair. “Sometimes I believe mother and father are watching me. From where? I’m not sure. Auntie had told me that father had always been like this.”

 

Jane tilted her head. “What did she mean by ‘this’, exactly?”

 

Mrs. Champlain’s remorseful gaze boiled away in an instant. “Always thirsty for knowledge. He would go to extents nobody ever dreamed of, just to get that little bit of information. It frightened mother and us. He would get into loads of trouble trying to dig up something nobody had thought of.”

  
  


The reporter’s brows furrowed again, re-running Mrs. Champlain’s last sentence. “Us?” She asked. “There was more than one of you?”

 

Mrs. Champlain nodded stiffly, her old hands grasping the object between them tightly. “Yes. My twin sister.” 


	3. January 7th, 1954.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> let's get this sisterly love going!!! (but for serious tho, i really don't like how this chapter turned out. it feels kinda rushed to me.)  
> also, translations for the words are in the end notes.

“Abby!” Wendy shouts, her socks skidding across the hardwood kitchen floor. Abigail looked up from her book, staring at her twin from the living room. She offered a puzzled grin.

 

“What?” Abigail asked, question genuine. “Why are you yelling? I’m literally four feet away.”

 

Glee fills Wendy’s eyes, and she rushes over to grab her sister by the sleeve. Abigail groans a little, following her anyways. 

 

She leads Abigail over to the closed door to their parent’s room. She glances behind her, checking to see if anyone was there, before pushing open the door. 

 

The twins are wide-eyed as they see the massive supply of their mother’s items on the vanity. They look at each other, devilish grins upon their faces. 

 

Wendy shuts the door, as Abigail hops up onto the small chair in front of the mirror. Her attention turns towards a small picture peeking out from behind a few bottles.

 

“Dee,” Abigail whispers, beckoning her sister over. “Come look at this.” 

 

Wendy cocks her head to the side, walking over to Abigail. She takes the photo from her twin’s hand. “What is this?” 

 

“Flip it,” Abigail says, making a circular motion with her finger. “It has words on the back.” 

 

The image depicted two men, possibly in their early twenties, outside of their Auntie and Uncle’s cinema. Each of them held a tiny bundle. The men were smiling, and Wendy could tell from looks, that one of them was her father. She couldn't quite make out who the other man was, though. 

 

There were only two sentences written on the back. 

 

_ February 21st, 1945. Bringing home our new girls, Abigail and Wendy.  _

 

“It’s us as babies,” Wendy says, squinting a little. “Daddy is holding one of us, but who’s the other man?”

 

Abigail shrugged, snatching the picture from her sister’s hands. She placed it back in its spot. “I don’t know. But if we brought it up with Daddy, he’d know we were going through his stuff.”

 

“Yeah, he’ll flip his old man lid.” Wendy finished, kneeling next to the vanity. “I don’t think Mama would be too happy either.”

 

Abigail nodded in agreement. “Right. Another reason why we shouldn’t pry,” She began picking up random bottles, shaking them. “What is all this stuff, anyway?”

 

“Mama’s junk,” Wendy scoffed, popping open one of the bottles her sister hadn’t touched. She squinted to read the messy handwriting. “Aw, man. This one’s in French.”

 

“What does it say? Let me see!” Abigail asked, trying to grab the container. Wendy wrenched it far out of her reach.

 

“It says  _ Capsules D'oestrogène Affaiblies* _ or something dumb like that,” She exhaled, plopping it back onto the table. She crossed her arms, disappointedly. “This is all just boring old medicine. We need to find Mama’s makeup stash.”

 

Abigail humphed in approval. “I bet it’s here somewhere.” She pulled open a few drawers, shuffling things around. 

 

Wendy picked up a handful of brushes from one of the adjacent shelves. She waved it in Abigail’s face, grinning. “Where there are brushes, there ought to be makeup.”

 

Abigail giggled, opening a skin coloured bottle. Wendy had found a black pen-shaped thing. 

 

They looked at each other with matching smiles. 

 

“Weren’t we supposed to stay at Victor’s today?” Abigail asked as Wendy was filling in her eyebrows. “I mean, weren’t  _ you _ supposed to stay at Victor’s, while I stayed home in bed?”

 

Wendy shrugged, continuing to scrub her sister’s eyebrows with the brush. “I don’t think so. Victor is playing basketball with his friends today. Plus, Mama and Daddy are at work,” She leaned back a little to admire her handiwork. “Although, Mama did ask me to phone Charlie or Auntie Willow to make us dinner.” 

Abigail’s eyes lit up. “Call Auntie Willow! She can’t cook anything besides burnt food, but we can watch movies and play with Wyatt!” She clapped her hands together with glee. “Ask her if she can play  _ Singin’ in the Rain _ or  _ Roman Holiday  _ on the big screen!” 

 

Wendy nods excitedly, dropping the pen to rush to their home phone. She dials the number that her Daddy had labelled  _ “My dumbass sister” _ . 

 

A few rings later, her Uncle picks up, his gruff voice almost unnoticeable. 

 

“ _ Hej _ , Wilson.” He answers, his heavy Swedish accent quite prominent. “What kind of experiment do you need help with this time?” 

 

“It’s Wendy, Uncle William,” she chirps. “Is Auntie there?”

 

There’s a little squeal on the other line, followed by a woman’s muffled encouragement. “ _ Ja _ . She is with Wyatt,” he mumbles. “Do you need anything? Do you want us to pick you up?”

 

Wendy grinned, twisting the phone cord around her finger. “Actually, Abby and I were going to walk over there if that’s okay,” she says. “Mama and Daddy are at work very late tonight.”

 

A small hum of approval rises from the speaker. “ _ Okej. _ I am making  _ Prinskorvar* _ . You can join us if you like. Your Auntie Willow would love to see you two. ” he says, quietly. 

 

“Thank you!” Wendy beamed. “We’ll be right over.” She placed the phone down, hanging up. 

 

Abigail peeked her heavily made-up face through their parent’s doorway. “Are we going to Auntie and Uncle’s or what?”

 

Wendy couldn’t help but stifle a laugh. Her twin looked terribly hilarious. “Yeah,” She snorts a little, then quickly covering it up. “We are.” 

 

Abigail squints her eyes shut menacingly, her lips pulled into a tight frown. “Do I look stupid?”

 

“Kind of!” Wendy roaring with laughter. “You look like Mama if she was dipped in hot oil!”

 

Abigail huffs out an annoyed breath, stomping out of the bedroom and into the bathroom to wash her face. 

 

Ten minutes later, the two twins walk out of their apartment building onto the bustling New York City streets. Slinging their overnight backpacks over their shoulders, they start for Auntie and Uncle’s house. 

 

Drawing and school was the topic of conversation, until Wendy caught sight of her friend. She grinned, waving frantically to Victor from across a fence. 

 

“Hey, Vic!” She calls to him. He turns away from his other friends, offering a warm smile and a wave back. The boys behind Victor make annoying hooting noises. 

 

“Hey, Dee! Hey, Abby! What’s up?” He shouts back, ignoring his other friends and forgoing his basketball game.

 

“Our parents are at work today, so we’re walking to our Auntie and Uncle’s place!” She yells, motioning to her backpack. “We’ll come by your house after. Tell your mum and dad we said hello, okay?” 

 

Victor nods, giving her a thumbs up. “For sure! Have a good day, you two!”

 

Wendy’s cheeks begin to burn from smiling, but she ignores it. “You too, Vic! I’ll see you later!”

 

He winks at her, Wendy’s face turning a bright shade of pink. She had to admit, Victor wasn’t like other boys their age. He was a classy gentleman that even her Daddy liked. 

 

Abigail snorts, elbowing her sister in the arm. “Wow, Dee. You’re blushing just like Mama and Daddy when we walked in on them.”

 

Wendy exhales sharply, giving Abigail a stern look. “Shut it,” she hisses. “That incident was traumatizing. I don't think I can ever eat at the kitchen counter again.”

 

“Gross, but I agree,” Abigail wrinkles her nose, making a  _ ‘bleh’ _ noise. “Parent sex isn’t something I ever need to see again, that’s for sure.” 

 

Wendy shakes her head, attempting to clear the memory. “I can only hope that Daddy was wearing a condom,” she waves her hands in disgust. “I don’t want another sibling.”

 

Abigail scuffs at the ground with her feet, looking both ways before dragging her sister across the busy street. They wave as thanks to the car that stopped. 

 

Staring up at the tall New York buildings, Wendy pondered. 

 

“Do you think Mama and Daddy  _ would _ have another baby?” She asked Abigail, who clearly wasn’t fully listening.

 

Abigail shrugged, picking at her winter gloves. “No. They’re much too busy to take care of it,” she shoved her hands into her skirt pocket. “I don’t think Mama and Daddy can actually have children, nor are they our real parents. Ever notice how we don’t look anything like them?”

 

“Of course we do!” Wendy stops walking abruptly, cutting her sister off. “You look more like Daddy, and I look like Mama.” 

 

Abigail snorts, pushing past Wendy. “We’re identical twins, Dee.  _ Identical _ means the same. If you look like Mama, so do I.” 

 

Wendy rolls her eyes. Abigail  _ clearly _ didn’t see their slight differences. She shut up though, knowing that her sister was somehow always right.

 

They both walked in silence the rest of the way to their Auntie and Uncle’s house.

 

Although, something wasn’t sitting right with Wendy. _How come Mama and Daddy couldn’t have children?_ Then, it came to her. 

 

“Abby,” She whispered, walking up the stairs to the house. “Do you think Mama is barren?”

 

“Probably,” Abigail replies, same hushed tone to her voice. She inhales, stopping Wendy from knocking on the door. Wendy looks at her with a confused expression. 

 

“-Or maybe Mama isn’t even a woman.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> some translations hehe:
> 
> *Capsules D'oestrogène Affaiblies: Weakened Estrogen Capsules, according to google translate.  
> *Prinskorvar: Swedish sausages. Again, according to Google.


End file.
